Lipstick Stains
by Mlle Passpartout
Summary: War touches foreign soil and the home front in equal parts. Sacrifices are demanded, lives are changed, and somewhere along the way, paths cross. WWII Rumbelle!AU. One-shot.
1. I

**A/N: **This is just a brief break from Hard Day's. I was inspired and felt like this was something worth writing. Hope you all like it and it can keep anyone held over until the next chapter of HDN is finished. Also, don't own the characters and it was inspired by OUaT and Bomb Girls.

* * *

Tentatively moving to the dance floor, Belle couldn't believe the nervous anticipation that accompanied her fluttering heart. Her eyes darted downward as he looked back at her, brown eyes and wry smile. "What's wrong?" he smiled.

Belle glanced up, a subtle blush creeping up onto her already powdered cheeks. "I don't know," Belle murmured truthfully, both of them now standing still on the edge of the dance floor, her front teeth biting into the plump and painted flesh of her bottom lip. "Just nervous," she laughed at the ridiculousness of her own words. "I don't dance," she admitted.

The soldier shifted on his feet, looking nothing like the confident man who had approached her moments before, but softer – more human. "Don't be nervous," the lilt of his voice made the hair on the back of her neck stand up straight. "I don't either, really," he confided, leaning in. Belle wasn't surprised, really, since his limp was evident – but she chose to keep that to herself, looking at him for further explanation. "Besides, it's not forever – just one dance."

Though the pressure in her chest had started to deflate, there was something about that sentence didn't sit right with her. "Just one dance," she repeated, a little steadier, the shaking in her voice masked by her smile and the sound of the band.

"Unless you'd prefer not to," Belle only realized that he was letting go of her hand, the contact starting to fade.

She had a choice to make, and not for the first time in the past year had she spoken before she actually thought about it. "No," a burst of confidence poured through her and his expression perked up into enthusiasm. "Like you said," she smiled, "It's not forever."

They both laughed and she was the first one to make another move toward the floor, glancing back at him with a wide smile, not wanting to waste another moment of the slower tune that she figured was perfectly suitable for both of them. "Lead the way, dearie," he teased as she whisked past, a playful twirl before circling into his surprisingly strong feeling arms.

As he wrapped his slender, elegant fingers around her own hand, and she felt the subtle press of warmth on her waist – and that was when Belle knew, everything that the last six months held for her was somehow changing. This was going to change everything.

* * *

Belle had been working the floor at Nolan's Munitions for six months. Her chestnut brown hair had turned blonde from exposure to chemicals, but she was slowly and surely getting used to looking at herself in the mirror and seeing herself like that. But, even if she lost her dark hair, it was a sacrifice worth Belle's time – one she didn't mind making. Every bomb that she lifted from the line was one more going to help the boys overseas.

It had petrified her at first, and disgusted her – but war was creeping closer and closer to their lives. Belle's high school sweetheart, George, who never failed to promise that he was going to marry her one day, even after they'd gone their separate ways, who wrote her and called her while he was at school, something Belle only dreamed of, was shipped overseas. Europe, he said to her on her front porch, he had said it was his last before he left.

"Europe?" Belle's voice echoed a mix of terror and – deep down – envy.

She saw the curt nod he'd have done, with his cropped black hair and square jaw. "France," he confirmed, and Belle's heart sank.

"Oh." How many times had she talked of her dreams, of traveling and seeing the tower, or castles, or boulevards fit for film stars. She knew, in reality, that he wasn't going to the France of her imagination, but still – for a girl who had never been outside of Maine. The space between them remained utterly silent and tense for what felt like minutes.

He coughed, "Belle?" Belle made a barely-there sound, urging him on, glancing at him through thick lashes. George clumsily reached across the bench for her hand. "Belle, you're the best girl I've ever known. I was stupid to let you go," he admitted, "I never stopped loving you." Her throat started to close.

What was he on about? And why was he grabbing her hand so tight, and looking at her like that – like he was sixteen again in his silly Chevy, asking her to go out for the first time. "Promise me," he looked at her so seriously and Belle's breath hitched – this couldn't be happening. "Promise me when I come home you'll marry me."

When George looked scared, scared like this, Belle didn't know what to do. It was the same look her father had when her mother didn't come out of the delivery room at the hospital – a look that struck her to the heart. Belle didn't love him, she wasn't sure she ever had – but hearing him, that declaration laced with fear and sincerity of some kind or another, Belle's heart broke for him. And she thought, maybe, if he could convince himself he loved her, and he was proving he loved his country, maybe Belle could convince herself she loved him too. But, before Belle knew what her mouth was doing, she was saying, "Of course – when you get back home."

He had kissed her then, pulled her into a kiss that should have made her knees shake and stomach flutter up into her chest. Despite his passion, and the enthusiasm with which he pushed his lips against hers and his hands on her cheek and in her hair, Belle didn't feel anything except pity. Pity for the poor young man who came to her porch on a fall afternoon and asked her to marry him, despite the fact they hadn't being going steady since senior year of high school.

And just like that, he was gone, a fresh lipstick stain carrying him to the hanger. He was shipped off in his Army green uniform, leaving Storybrooke behind, like so many of the other young men who felt the call of war was too strong to ignore.

George wrote her letters – though they didn't come very often – and she started working in the factory, despite her father's wishes. Belle always needed to do something, though. If she couldn't write to George with any level of sincerity, she could fill bombs and help him win. She could do that. Blanchard's Munitions was less than three miles from her home, and it was only a street car's ride away.

And Belle had taken that streetcar every day since the day she started.

She joined the girls who gave up their nail heels and baubles – anything that could cause a spark and send the whole place up to heaven – at home. They changed into their white suits and walked onto the factory floor, knowing they were doing the job the boys needed done when they couldn't be doing it.

She handled explosives with steady hands – practiced from pouring coffee and tea. She twisted caps and flipped levers, watchful eyes always minding the speed and strength of the assembly line. She threaded detonators with the skilled hands of a seamstress. And, they rolled the labels carefully onto the bodies of the bombs, lifting them with those same steady hands, and sometimes, when a special number passed by, or a memory resurfaced, they lifted those bombs to their lips and left lipstick stains for their boys, and the jerries they'd be dropping them on.

But even then, with all of the honor and pride in the products of their work, the girls couldn't just sit around praying like saints. Waiting with their knitting needles by the fire or their pens and paper on a desk, dreamily staring out the window in wait. Belle had never been that type, and it seemed the factory was full of young women who felt the same.

Ruby Howell, with her wild laugh and love for swing dancing and uniforms, was the first person to reach out to Belle as a friend. Then there was Emma – fierce, brave Emma who never seemed to care a wit about what anyone did or said, always staying the course and glowering at the advances of young soldiers and factory boys alike. Word was her last love shipped off and died in the field. Oh, then there was Ashley, run away from home – eloped, young baby at home while her husband shipped out.

She supposed they were all rebels in their own way, even Mary Margaret who sat perched above in the Nolans' office as the secretary, defying her stepmother's wishes to even dare work near the factory – sneaking around to get to the Rabbit Hole with the girls.

Those nights were always the best. Even if they didn't take away the reality that young men were flooding overseas, heading out to fight the jerries or the Japanese, wherever they were needed, they were moments where the boys could believe that they'd get the girl to miss them and care about them, that they'd have someone to carry into war with them. Belle was that for George, she realized, as she watched Ruby receive three proposals in a week.

It was easier to process and live with – the fact she didn't actually love her fiancé. It didn't make it right, but it made it okay to go out and smile, and go to dances without stockings – they had long forgone stockings, all part of the sacrifice for the war – and while some said it was indecent, Ruby made a big joke out of doing her part in more way than one. Mary Margaret had been suitably scandalized at the whole thing before Lieutenant Peter something or other swept Ruby out onto the dance floor.

Now, just because Belle went didn't mean she ever did actually dance. She watched Ruby and even Emma sometimes, who felt the impulse when dragged out by a particularly handsome young soldier who introduced himself as Jefferson – very American, Ruby would comment later, but was apparently in charge of some big operation in the states. Whatever he was doing in Maine, none of them could know, Emma made it a point to mention how unbelievable that was every time his name was mentioned.

Belle tended to stay to the side, with Ashley. It wasn't right, she'd say, even for a sham engagement, to do that to George – and Ashley pined after Sean. She said she just liked the music, but Belle watched the way she looked at the dance floor. Ashley missed her husband, and Belle had a feeling that seeing this – all the flashes of green and their arms around pretty girls, it must have stirred up some memory or another. When Ashley looked her saddest, sometimes, Belle would pull her into a dance. But, neither of them ever ventured to cross that last line.

And it looked like neither of them ever would until one night, late in the spring when the flowers were starting to bloom and it rained every day but only for a little while. It was a clear night and the Rabbit Hole was full of young soldiers, including Jefferson Madden who was invading Emma's personal space – but it didn't seem as though she minded all that much, even with her best pout on.

"Look at that," Ashley commented, inclining her chin toward the two of them, standing at a makeshift bar. "She pretends to hate it, but she's been hurting," she looked at Belle, "even if she's mad at the guy, at least she feels something."

Belle giggled, the truth in Ashley's words just processing in her head. It must have been something else – to really love someone who was risking his life. It brought Ashley and Emma together, that was for sure, but Belle just couldn't get her head in that space. She cared about George, truly, but she didn't want to marry him. She half hoped that, like some of the girls joked, once the boys got where they were going they'd find someone else and forget all about their girl at home.

What was meant as a threat and legitimate fear to others would serve as a freedom Belle couldn't imagine. It hadn't happened yet, at least not from his letters, but she could hope. Watching Emma, it was easy to forget that the music was live; the liquor was flowing (though Belle could not bring herself to partake), and the world outside was still turning.

"Excuse me," Belle barely registered the words, her eyes drifting from Emma and First Sergeant Madden to Ruby approaching with a very red-faced redheaded soldier next to her. The height of the pair, Ruby in her slightly more than kitten heels, and the man masked the twirling dancers behind them.

Both Ashley and Belle straightened up, smiling almost in unison, as was custom when Ruby decided it was time to introduce another one of the string she was constantly chumming around and dancing with. "Girls!" she chirped, "this is Dr. Hopper." Her hand rested on his arm so comfortably while he looked like he might jump out of his skin. Perhaps coming to this place was not his plan. "He's a physician for the army," she added – as though they couldn't tell. Belle chalked it up to her excitement.

"Archie," he chuckled awkwardly, "will do just swell." He nodded his head to both of them as Ruby explained that they were her best friends and worked at the munitions factory with her. Belle couldn't help but like him much more than the self-serving, boastful boys Ruby started hanging about after Pete was shipped off.

She didn't like to admit it, but it tore her up pretty badly when he left. It was nice to see her smiling so truthfully for once.

Dr. Hopper cleared his throat and played with the cuff on his sleeve as pleasantries were exchanged, however, and started to step out of the way. "How rude," his crooked smile was endearing, "I meant to – oh, this is Lieutenant Colonel Gold."

He awkwardly half-stepped, half-slid out of the way to reveal a shorter, slighter man with a clean pressed uniform and certain… aura of age about him. Not quite young like the other men at the Rabbit Hole, but not old either. It was just… reflective of his status in the army. His lips pulled into a thin smile, shifting almost uncomfortably. "A pleasure." Belle and Ashley exchanged a glance – his accent wasn't American. He must have picked up on it. "Of Scotland," he added.

"LC Gold," apparently some kind of abbreviation, "was in my hospital," Dr. Hopper commented vaguely, "in France." There were many things that could mean, and Belle's mind struggled to figure out which. It wasn't proper to ask, and to look at someone with pity, well, Belle thought that must be worse. She looked down instead, shuffling her foot.

The silence, for a moment was awkward, only filled with the first bars of a song that sent couples reeling from their swinging to holding one another close until Ruby started up with something – Belle could hardly pay attention as she watched the well kept shoes and tailored pants come forward, not able to hide the awkward gait that betrayed a limp. Belle's eyes slowly lifted upward, from knees to waist to shoulders to neck, and finally to face – confident, but not hardened and entitled. "May I have this dance?"


	2. II

**A/N: **I know I said this would be a one-shot but someone on tumblr prompted me to write another section, and I couldn't help myself, so here it is: a second piece of Lipstick Stains. I hope you all enjoy!

* * *

It was just one dance.

Belle had convinced herself of that. The Rabbit Hole was just a place she went with her friends, soldiers on leave, men who wanted to dance and needed partners, and girls who were so strung out they couldn't help but jump at the chance. Belle was going to be an honest woman.

George was still in her life. He was her fiancé. Even if it didn't mean much to her, she knew it meant the world to him – knowing there was a woman to come home to. She couldn't destroy that for him.

But, it didn't help her feel any better about it.

She thought about LC Gold the next day. She thought about how even if he couldn't lift her or do the turns and jumps she was used to, he was extremely considerate, and he talked to her – he actually talked to her, listened to what she had to say and responded in kind.

It was the first time she felt like she really connected to someone, like a man really wanted to know her.

George knew who she used to be, but Gold… he had been interested in the woman she was becoming.

She could barely sleep that night.

Going into the factory the next day was abysmal. But, it had been worth it. All of the girls were talking about the fun they had. Ruby was dealing with a particular problem – which doctor was she going to dance with the next night and would she decide to be a nurse instead and forget the factory.

They'd all laughed – except for Emma, who took everything just a little too seriously. Emma had declared that it wasn't going to suit any of them for Ruby to talk so foolishly, and then Ruby had tackled her, saying that was the sweetest sentiment that Emma had ever said.

Emma had shoved her off and they had all laughed together, enjoyed themselves. It was almost like they were going to make washing machines instead of stripping down without a stitch of metal on them to fill up the bombs.

The day passed normally. Several days did.

No one went to the Rabbit Hole early in the week, after all. But, Thursday rolled around and it meant that everyone was thinking of going, and Belle didn't know if she wanted to go. Well, she knew what she wanted, and that was the problem.

Ruby had gone to dinner with Dr. Hopper, and she told Belle he had made it every clear that the LC Gold had asked about her. And Ashley clung to that like glue, stating that Belle needed to go with them – it was her only time away from the baby, except at the factory, and she had so little to be happy for… if there was one thing Belle could not handle, it was guilt.

So, despite her reservations, she was going to go to the Rabbit Hole with the girls and dance and pretend that everything was okay for a little while.

So, they pulled on their dresses and rolled seams on the backs of their legs, as though they had on stockings, and painted their lips and faces with all of the tricks of the trade to use the smallest amount of make-up for the greatest possible results.

They took a streetcar together, got off down the road, and giggled together as they heard the music pumping out of the little juice joint. Ruby practically ran down the street (followed quickly by Ashley), leaving Belle in the back with Emma and Mary Margaret.

"Nervous?" Mary Margaret smiled, looping her arm through Belle's.

Patting Mary's arm, Belle wrinkled her nose. "Why would I be nervous?" she tried not to blush, though she wasn't sure how successful she actually was.

"Belle. You don't have to feel bad," Mary Margaret soothed, giving her wrist a gentle squeeze. She meant well, that was for certain, but Belle didn't know if she really had a grip on what was going on. She was privileged; she still had silk stockings, and was helping for the sake of helping, rather than for livelihood. That wasn't a problem, of course, it was what the boys at the front needed, but it certainly was different than the girls who didn't have much of a choice, girls like her.

Whatever the case, it was a lot easier to say than to do.

But, she tried. Belle tried to not feel guilty. When they walked in, the atmosphere was alive. The band was hot and soldiers were dancing with factory girls, and everyone was laughing and talking – there was booze flowing, not that Belle intended to partake in any liquor. It didn't stop Emma, Ruby, and Ashley from rushing to the bar to grab something to drink, and Mary Margaret was all too quick to rush away as soon as she saw David.

And then Belle was standing alone.

Not for long though.

Soldiers came, they spoke to her, tried to flirt and cajole her into a dance, but she couldn't bear it. She didn't want to dance with anyone. Each of them shared something with the boy who had come to her porch and so sweetly asked her to marry him, each of them was looking for something she couldn't give, and every time they looked at her with hopeful eyes, she knew she couldn't' give them what they wanted. Shed' handed out a false promise that was wrecking her already.

Belle had to get out. She couldn't stand and smile for another minute. Her friends would be fine for ten minutes while she got hold of herself. She walked straight out of the bar.

She hadn't even bothered to take her coat off when they got in.

Belle looked upward, trying to stifle her tears. She didn't know why she wanted to cry so badly, or what was pushing her toward it. Maybe it was overstimulation, and the letters George sent – terribly cut up, the censors were really going to town. She could only imagine what happened in the blacked off or cut out pieces. How scared he must have been, what horrors he wrote of…

Maybe all of these boys were the same. They pretended, just like she did, and Belle hated it. She wanted to confront it, be realistic and know the world. Maybe this war was the best education one could get in that score: the world certainly seemed to be crawling straight up to their doorsteps.

"Damn it," she breathed, balling her fists, trying to be quiet and compose herself, but she couldn't.

She was pulled from herself by the sound of a lighter and the flicker of light from the side. Belle jumped, just a little, and looked with wide eyes. "Care for a smoke?" a Scottish burr rolled out.

Belle's heart was beating so strongly in her chest, she was surprised it didn't just pop right out. "No, no thank you," she answered, watching as he walked forward, his uneven gait almost as distinct as his voice.

"Sorry to surprise you," he snorted, "but I saw you walk out before… Your friends…" he waved his hand with the cigarette in it, the little red spot on the end flickering in the dark, "they were worried."

Belle laughed softly, shaking her head. Her perfectly curled hair bouncing on her neck and shoulders, "I'm fine. Just a little overwhelmed." She took a deep breath and looked up at him, licking her top lip, "Thank you though, for asking."

She wasn't sure if she was brushing him off, or not, but he didn't seem to take it that way. He just moved further forward. "Are you alright, Miss French?" he asked, taking another drag of the pungent cigarette.

There was a sort of laugh, but also a little bit like a whine that she managed to say anything. "I don't know," she answered truthfully.

Gold nodded. She could hear him breathing in through his nose, and could see the subtle movement of his head, as though he had nothing else to say. But, she couldn't be so lucky. "You know, I had a girl at home, like you."

Belle looked up, surprised. "Really?"

"Oh yes," he answered quickly, a husky little laugh in his voice. "Milly. Sweet girl, but," he shook his head. "Her heart wasn't in it." Belle felt a unique stab of pain straight through her. How did he know? Belle tried not to look too embarrassed, "She didn't last very long either, Miss French. Not where her heart wasn't."

Belle bit the inside of her lip. "What happened to her?"

He shrugged. "Don't rightly know." Belle couldn't tell if he was telling the truth or not, but it didn't seem like something he wanted to talk about.

"But what about you?" she asked, as he took a drag of his cigarette.

Gold shrugged, rolling his cigarette over in his fingers. "I survived." Gold smiled softly to himself, "Your soldier will too."

"He's not my soldier," she added, perhaps a little too hastily, feeling ashamed that she felt the need to say so. That was horrible.

Belle reached out and took the cigarette out from between his fingers, bringing it up to her mouth. She didn't smoke much, but she knew how, and that was enough to take a long drag. Feeling the smoke fill up her lungs was a good feeling, it burned and it was just what she needed.

Gold was looking at her so hard she could feel it. "Then who is he?"

Belle shook her head, just playing with the cigarette. She didn't want another drag, but it was nice to have something in her hands. "My high school sweetheart. We haven't been together for years," she explained, almost defeated. That wasn't the worst part, though. Maybe he'd understand her concern. "What if he doesn't? live" Belle asked, the true fear she had bubbling up in her stomach.

"Miss French," he reached out, their fingers brushing as he took the cigarette from her hand, "whether he does or not, you are still going to have to."

Belle didn't know how to respond. Her hands were shaking, yet she didn't want another drag of the cigarette. "I don't really know how," she admitted, glad that it was dark and her blush was hidden under from view. "I pour explosives in an assembly line. That's it."

"One hell of a job, Miss French, " he pointed out. "One we couldn't do without," he added, flicking the ash to the pavement. While he took the last long drag of the cigarette, they met eyes, and breathed, in unison.

The silence was maddening, until Belle started laughing. For some reason, it was so incredibly funny. "You have to pardon my language, "Belle started," but you are full of shit, LC Gold."

And in that instant, they were both laughing. Belle could feel her ribs starting to hurt and tears, this time of mirth forming at the corners of her eyes. She even saw Gold reach up and start to wipe his own. "That's probably true," he managed, between laughs, "but, you're smiling, aren't you?"

She nodded, vigorously, still grinning and wiping her eyes. "I guess you win," her shoulders still shaking with bouts of silent laughter.

"Not yet," he shrugged, the laughter finally dying down between them.

Belle stopped laughing too, tilting her head to the side. "What do you mean?" she asked, hearing the cigarette crunch under his toe.

He didn't say anything for a moment. Belle wondered what this very strange, very full of shit soldier had up his sleeve, but was intrigued enough to stay and find out. When he moved toward her, Belle raised her eyebrows at him. "I mean this," he said softly, raising his hand to her cheek and cupping it gently.

Against her better judgment, Belle leaned in, tilting her head back, and let him kiss her. It was smoky, and a little sweet, and he put just enough pressure on her lips that Belle felt her knees turn to jelly.

It wasn't like when George kissed her at all. She was definitely seeing fireworks. Her stomach turned into knots and her hand inched up the front lapel of his uniform and gripped onto his collar as he coaxed her lips apart and deepened their kiss. Belle whined as his hand gripped onto her waist, and his other hand found its way into her hair.

When they finally separated, panting, Belle laughed awkwardly. She made no move to let go, and he didn't either. She could practically feel his heart beating against his chest. "Does that," she breathed, "count as winning?"

He leaned forward and pressed another kiss to her lips, less needy this time, more reassuring and romantic, caressing the back of her neck with his fingers. "It's a start, I think," he mumbled against her lips.

Belle returned his affection, still feeling tingles and sparks, even when their lips separated. "Me too," she giggled, and kissed him again. This time, she took the aggressive route. Belle pulled him close and kissed him without abandon.

It felt good. It felt right. That was more than Belle could say with many things that had been happening in her life recently.

But, before things got too much, before his hands travelled down her hip and over her thigh, before he found out she didn't actually have stockings on, Belle reluctantly pulled away. "We should go inside," Belle sighed against his lips, trying not to bear all of her weight onto him.

"On one condition," she could feel him grinning, and giggled just a little bit. Belle raised her eyebrows at him, and giggled, humming in response, rather than speaking. "I get another dance?"

Belle giggled, letting her hands fall before she entwined their fingers. "Just one."


End file.
